


Mihi Loquere irrumator praetor

by EtoileGarden



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Banter, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, boys are shitheads, but very light on the comfort, early friendship days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12182160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtoileGarden/pseuds/EtoileGarden
Summary: I wanted to call this 'Panic! In the hallway'.“Come on,” he said, “I promise I won’t tell the class you’re into Twilight if you don’t make us late today.”“Hey,” Ronan snapped.Adam glanced round at him long enough to roll his eyes, kept walking.“Hey,” Ronan said again, lengthening his strides to draw even with Adam, “Parrish,” he said.“Yeah, yeah,” Adam said easily, “I know, you don’t really like Twilight, etc, etc,  I got it Lynch.”“Parrish you’re fucking bleeding.”





	Mihi Loquere irrumator praetor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this has teenage boys making some slightly bad decisions and being bad at coping etc.

Despite all evidence claiming otherwise, Ronan was the first one to figure it out.   
Not because Gansey wasn’t paying attention, not even because Ronan was paying attention, simply because Ronan had one class with Adam that Gansey did not. 

It was straight after lunch, Gansey had sped off to duck into a meeting before class, and Ronan and Adam were dawdling in the hallways. Adam was collecting his books, Ronan was complaining about the lack of natural lighting. 

“As if it makes a difference to you,” Adam grumbled, head inside his locker. Ronan faked offense, loudly, not coherently, and too explicit for a school.  
“I’m only saying,” Adam said, finally pulling himself upright, swinging around to lean his hip gingerly against the locker door as he turned to look at Ronan, “that you spend most of your time shut up in your bedroom, and when you do go out, it’s at night.”   
“So you’re saying I’m a fucking vampire?” Ronan replied, “I think you’re mistaking me for Noah, he’s the one who covers himself in glitter.”   
“God, Lynch,” Adam snorted, “of course your idea of vampires is from Twilight, I knew that hard punk exterior was fake.”   
“Fuck off, Parrish.” Ronan snapped. He swung his bag at Adam’s legs in playful retribution which Adam easily avoided by stepping quickly backwards against the open door of his locker. It was over in less than a second, both the movement and the sudden twist in his expression, and then he was slamming his door shut again and hitching his bag up on his shoulder and striding off down the hallway.   
“Come on,” he said, “I promise I won’t tell the class you’re into Twilight if you don’t make us late today.”   
“Hey,” Ronan snapped.   
Adam glanced round at him long enough to roll his eyes, kept walking.   
“Hey,” Ronan said again, lengthening his strides to draw even with Adam, “Parrish,” he said.   
“Yeah, yeah,” Adam said easily, “I know, you don’t really like Twilight, etc, etc, I got it Lynch.”   
“Parrish you’re fucking bleeding.”   
The both of them dropped their gazes to Adam’s side, a dark patch of blood already soaking through his button up.   
“Fuck,” Adam spat. He came to a sudden halt in the middle of the hallway, fingers brushing momentarily over the damp fabric, ignoring the annoyed sounds of the students he was blocking. Ronan shut them up quickly with vitriol filled glares, and rounded on Adam who was still staring at his stained fingers.   
“Hey-” he began again, reaching out to grip Adam’s shoulder. As if shocked, Adam jerked at his touch, lifting his head quickly to stare at Ronan, and then he shook his head.   
“I’m fine,” he said tersely, “I’m going to the bathroom to clean this up, I’ll see you in class.”   
He pulled himself smoothly from Ronan’s hand, and then away back the way they had come, and around the corner. 

“Fuck,” Ronan hissed, glanced round at the stream of students trickling to class, none of them having taken notice of the small scene enacted out amongst them, and then followed Adam.   
By the time he’d rounded the corner, Adam had already disappeared into the bathroom, and as Ronan pushed the door open, was tugging his shirt off over his head, bag on the counter, tie loose enough to pull off as well.   
He was on the wrong side of Adam to see the injury properly, but even from the doorway he could see the bandage taped over his hip, stretching round over his lower stomach, the white stained with fresh blood. Adam entirely ignored this in favour of turning on the sink tap, cold, and pushing the wet bloodstain under the flow.   
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ronan snapped, shutting the door behind him, then dropping his bag down in front of it, and crossing the gap between them in a few short strides. He stared down at the swirling pink water, at Adam’s frenzied movements, hands scrubbing at the mark before it could become a stain.   
“I can’t go to class with a bloody shirt,” Adam replied brusquely.  
“No one would care.”  
“No one would care if you turned up with a bloody shirt,” Adam said, tense, “the expect it from you, not me. I don’t want them to expect it from me.”   
“Whatever, Parrish,” a pause, “I just meant that normal people would check out where the blood was coming from first rather than going all laundry maid.”   
Adam ignored him. The water was slowly washing down the drain clearer and clearer. 

Ronan would not have picked Adam to be a fighter. Everything about him, from the huddled way he held himself, to his oddly delicate face, to his obvious distaste over Ronan’s skirmishes, showed that he thought himself above such base activities. His now bare torso, however, told a very different story, one which Ronan recognised from long exposure. 

“Do you secretly box in between one of your dozen jobs?” he asked, more curious than snarky, gesturing a hand at the scattered bruises on Adam’s ribs, back, stomach. Most of them were faded into sickly yellows, but there was one brightly purple bruise stretching up from the waistband of his trousers, reaching a short way up his lower back, and a dark suggestion of one surrounding the edges of the bandage, which was steadily grower brighter with blood.   
“Do I fucking look like I box?” Adam snapped back, then before Ronan could reply that, yes, he kind of did look like he boxed, said, “Of course I don’t. Go to class, Lynch.”   
“Fuck off,” Ronan said immediately, bristling, “and leave you to bleed out in a bathroom? Gansey would have my balls.”   
“I’m not going to bleed out.” Adam’s previous anger had already flared out, and when he spoke again his tone was bland, “We’re not telling Gansey about this.”   
“Well I’m not leaving,” Ronan said, “stop soaking your shirt and lemme see your side.”  
“I can deal with it myself,” Adam said in the same toneless voice, but he turned the tap off and began wringing the water out of the fabric. “Honestly, you can go. I’m fine.”   
“Look, it’s my fault you’re bleeding anyway, let me see the damage.”   
“It’s not your fault,” Adam frowned, finally looking away from the wet shirt, “why would you say that?”   
“Uh,” Ronan raised his eyebrows at Adam, “you smashed your hip on the door because I tried to hit you?”   
“It’s not your fault,” Adam repeated, still frowning, “I just pulled a cut.”  
“Christ, Parrish,” Ronan spat, “I’m not an idiot, I’m not suggesting I knifed you or anything, I’m just saying- God, turn around and let me see how bad it is, ok? That’s a fuck load of blood.”   
Adam didn’t move, so Ronan did. He hooked his hands around Adam’s upper arms, discovering more bruises as he did so, and physically persuaded him to turn so his back was leaning against the wet counter, and the bloody bandage was facing Ronan. Adam resisted only momentarily, as if it were compulsory to put up some sort of fight, and then let Ronan shift him, moving loosely, not complaining when the water on the counter soaked into his trousers.   
“Fuck.” Ronan said eloquently, dropped his hands from Adam’s shoulders. He ghosted his hand over the bandage, then looked up at Adam’s face instead, extremely pale in contrast to the tan shoulders, bruised ribs, and blood pink skin. Adam is staring down at the floor in between them, doesn’t shift his gaze even as Ronan speaks.   
“Do you have another bandage?”  
Adam shook his head.   
“This one is fucked,” Ronan offered, letting his fingers press gently against the peeling tape on Adam’s stomach, “we should go to the nurse.”   
“I don’t need to go to the nurse.”  
“Adam,” Ronan snorted, “I hate to break it to you, but if you’re not gonna go to the nurse there was no point in washing the blood out of your shirt.”   
“It’ll stop bleeding soon,” Adam says, his voice vague, as if he’s speaking from another room, “I just need to compress it.” He doesn’t make any movement to do so.   
The bandage was already slippery with blood, the tape, just masking tape mind, was coming away from his skin with the combination of sweat and blood unsticking it. Ronan pinched the edge of the tape between finger and thumb, and tugged it fully away, the bandage coming off easily and sloppily. Adam hisses but otherwise makes no response.   
At least it doesn’t look too deep, but it is messy. A somewhat circular jagged gash, edges partially scabbed. It’s bleeding efficiently, but nowhere near as effusively as Ronan had assumed from the amount of blood on the bandage.   
“Doesn’t look infected,” he says at last. Adam continues to not react. “I’m gonna try and stem the flow a bit with paper towels, ok?” Ronan says, reaching past Adam to the dispenser. He waits a few seconds for Adam to say something, and when he doesn’t, tugs a few towels out and straightens back up. He folds them in half, but hesitates to press them against Adam’s side.   
“Hey,” he says, “Hey. Adam, man.” He bends his knees slightly so they’re at eye level, and then, with his free hand, pats Adam’s cheek.   
“Ok,” Adam mumbles, his eyes flicker up to Ronan, and then back down again. He swallows heavily, “Sorry. Ok.”   
“Ok,” Ronan repeats, presses the towels to blood and listens to Adam hiss again. “Where did you go?” he asks, aiming for a teasing tone and missing it by a mile.   
Adam finally looks up at him properly, “What?” he asks, his voice is still faraway, but his eyes are more focused.   
“You zoned out, man,” Ronan mumbled, dropping his gaze and staring instead at the blood soaking into the paper between his fingers. His fingers were coated in Adam’s blood.   
“Sorry,” Adam said as if by instinct, didn’t go on to explain why.   
“We’re going to the nurse,” Ronan said firmly, “this needs butterfly stitches or some shit, and probably some disinfectant. What did you even cut it on anyway?”  
“Piece of metal,” Adam mumbled, “stumbled against a some junk metal at the garage.”   
“Shit.” That made sense, matched up with the shape of the wound. “You’re up to date with your tetanus shots, yeah?”   
“Ye- oh,” Adam said, glum. He didn’t sound far away anymore. “I’m due a booster.”   
Ronan pulled the towels away from his hip. He chucked the soaked towels into the bin, then crossed back to his bag in front of the door.   
“Grab some more paper towels,” he said over his shoulder, “I have some tape that should hold them down until we get to the nurse.”  
Adam obliged and by the time Ronan had dug out the tape and straightened back up, he had folded the towels again and pressed them back down over his hip. He held the paper still while Ronan taped it clumsily down, the tape sticking on itself, and then not sticking on blood slick skin. After a few minutes they let go, cautiously, and when the makeshift bandage didn’t immediately fall off, Ronan nodded. “That’ll do,” he said, pleased.   
Adam as not pleased.   
“I can’t put my shirt back on,” he said, “it’ll get fucked up. But I can’t exactly walk around like this,”   
“Where’s your jersey?” Ronan asked, poking at the sodden lump of shirt on the counter.   
“Home.” Adam said shortly, “It was still drying when I left this morning.”   
“Ok,” Ronan said, then tugged his jersey off over his head, “put this on, and try to get blood on it. It’ll add to my reputation.”   
Adam rolled his eyes, hesitated, took the jersey and awkwardly pulled it on. It hung loose on his shoulders, and he pulled it down over his abdomen carefully, tense as it brushed against his hips.   
“You can go to class,” he said, bending stiffly to pick up his bag, “I can go to the nurse myself,” he picked up his shirt, gave it one last squeeze, and then held it loosely in his left hand.   
“Fuck no,” Ronan retorted, “this is the best excuse to skip class. Come on.” 

The nurse wasn’t surprised to see Ronan, and then was surprised to discover that he wasn’t the one the blood came from. She took Adam by the shoulder and led him into a smaller room where she lay him down on the bed, and Ronan followed behind them, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the doorframe.   
“Would you shut the door please, Mr Lynch.”   
Ronan shut the door. Judging by the nurses expression, he’d shut it with himself on the wrong side of it. Adam wasn’t complaining though, so he stomped across the room and sat on the foot of the bed.   
“Parrish doesn’t mind me staying, do you, Parrish?” Ronan drawled, locking eyes with the nurse who looked entirely exasperated.   
Adam only looked vaguely amused. “Nah,” he said, “he can stay.”   
He stayed. The nurse tsked over the paper bandage, then tutted over the state of his hip, and then scolded at the tetanus admission. She cleaned it carefully while Ronan watched Adam just as carefully not make any noise. After it had been doused in ointment, butterfly stitched up, and covered with a clean bandage and medical grade tape, she patted him gently on the knee.   
“Brave,” she said. Adam blushed.   
“He should get a lolly pop,” Ronan offered, “for being such a brave boy.”   
He got twin dirty looks. 

The nurse left them alone, only for a few minutes, to fetch a tetanus shot, and Ronan shifted further onto the bed to raise his eyebrows at Adam.   
“What?”   
“So I’m obviously not actually a vampire,” Ronan said, “or I would probably have jumped you the second you started bleeding.”   
It took Adam a moment to remember their previous, stupid, conversation, and then he snorted.   
“I would say that maybe you just have remarkable self control, but we both know that’s not true.” 

 

“You’ll have to stay here for twenty minutes,” the nurse informed Adam, “so I can make sure you don’t have any negative side effects from the shot. I’ll update the system so your teacher knows you’re not wagging.”  
“Thank you,” Adam said.  
“What about me?” Ronan asked.  
“I will make sure your teacher knows where you are as well.” She turned back to Adam. “Mr Parrish,” she started, and then glanced back at Ronan, “Are you in any sort of trouble?”   
Adam frowned, “No,” he said, glanced at Ronan as well, “this was an accident.”   
“Yes,” she smiled gently, “As you said. I was more concerned however,” she said, “by the bruising on your ribs.”   
Adam’s frown disappeared as he slid his face carefully into neutral, but he couldn’t quite slip off the discomfort in the tenseness of his mouth.   
“No,” he repeated, and the nurse again glanced at Ronan.   
“Perhaps Mr Lynch could wait outside?” she suggested carefully.   
Ronan stiffened, Adam intensified his blank expression.  
“No,” he shook his head, “it’s alright,” he added, “nothing is wrong. I work a few manual jobs. The bruises are just perks from shifting heavy boxes.” His voice was stilted but extremely firm, and eventually the nurse nodded.   
“Alright,” she said, “I’ll be in the office, call me if you start to feel nauseous. And Adam?” she waited until he looked up at her, “If you need to come back for any other reason, this is a safe space.”   
He nodded tersely, and she left, pulling the door to, but not quite shutting it.   
Ronan got off the bed after she left, crossed the room, and pushed the door until it latched shut with a click.   
“I swear she is always so suspicious of me,” Ronan began, swiveling on his heel to lean against the door “she always - Parrish?”   
Adam hadn’t shifted at all from his half sitting position on the bed, but his neutral expression had. It looked like the facial equivalent of trying to hide a volcanic eruption with an umbrella, or a ragged gash with a paper towel. His chest was shaking.   
“Adam,” Ronan tried again, “I - Should I get the nurse? Are you having a reaction to the shot? What-?” He broke off as Adam shook his head, two tight shakes. Pushing off the door, Ronan approached him carefully. When Adam didn’t seem to be reacting negatively to his closeness, he perched back on the bed, just below Adam’s hip. He watched Adam struggle for a few seconds, valiantly fighting his own face which was crumpling despite his attempts to smooth it out. The more his face crumples, the harsher his chest shakes, and the harsher his chest shakes, the more Ronan realises what he’s seeing in front of him.   
“Hey,” he mumbles, “hey. You don’t have to tell her anything. She doesn’t know anything,” he says carefully, “you’re good.” he adds, just in case. Adam’s face continues to crumple, but his eyes flash to Ronan. “Yeah,” Ronan says weakly, “just breathe, yeah? It’s fine. You don’t have to tell her anything. I’m not going anywhere.”   
His chest isn’t heaving so violently anymore, but his shoulders have started to shake even as his face begins to smooth back out.   
“Do you want-” Ronan pauses, “I’m gonna touch your shoulders ok?” he asks, watches Adam jerk his head in a nod, and then lifts his hands to press his palms flat against the front of Adam’s shoulders. He curls his fingers over bone, rubs his thumb against clavicle, “You’re ok.” he says firmly. Adam nods again, stiff, but his breathing is evening out, the shaking under Ronan’s hands is already less.   
They wait it out. Ronan mumbling what he hopes is reassurances while Adam further reins in his breathing, slow and careful, so very quiet. Eventually he shifts a little under Ronan’s hands, and it’s not a hard movement from shaking and barely concealed panic, just a soft shift of muscles like he’s reminding his body how it works. Ronan drops his hands down into his lap, settles back, and now Adam is blushing.   
“I’m sorry,” he’s saying, back to instinct, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”   
Ronan doesn’t take long to make up his mind. He scowls. “What?” he says, “You having a panic attack? Why are you sorry?”   
Adam is still blushing, and shifting back on the bed, moving further away from Ronan and curling up over his knees so he can hide his face.   
“It’s pathetic.” he says to his legs.  
Ronan purses his lips, doesn’t change his mind.   
“Fuck man,” he says, “I used to have panic attacks all the fucking time, ok? Still do sometimes. I’m not judging.”   
Adam doesn’t reply.   
“Hey, shithead,” Ronan says, too gentle, “It’s fine, y’know. These things fucking happen.”  
“I didn’t mean to...imply that you were pathetic,” Adam mumbles, his hands over his face now.  
“Whatever,” Ronan says roughly, “look, chill out, ok?” he nudges Adam’s leg, “You’re good.”   
It takes a few more moments, but then Adam is sitting back up straight again, dropping his hands back down onto his lap, face not quite smooth. He bites his lip. “Don’t tell Gansey,” he says.   
“About the panic attack or this impromptu trip to the nurse?” Ronan replies easily.   
Adam raises his eyebrows, fixes Ronan with a sour expression, “All of it. Not the blood, not the nurse, not the panic attack. Ok?” His voice is steel until the last word, and he wavers, bites his lip harder.   
“Why not?” Ronan asks. He knows why not.   
Adam’s sour expression manages, somehow, to become even more sour.   
“He’ll worry,” he said sharply, “and then he’ll nag. I don’t want that.”   
“Yeah,” Ronan agreed, “he will. Does he have a reason to?”   
The expression shifted into bitter.   
“Ronan,” he said.   
“I won’t tell Gansey any of this,” Ronan says, “so long as you tell me who’s hurting you.”  
“Ronan.”   
“Come on, Parrish,” Ronan snapped, “let’s not pretend. Who is it?”  
“Lynch.”  
“At least let me teach you how to fight.”  
“I can’t.”   
Ronan bit his lips to keep himself from speaking. Instead, he leaned forwards, rested his hand lightly on Adam’s stomach, and then pressed his thumb against the edge of the bruise creeping out from the bandage.   
“Fuck you,” Adam bit out, jerking back, away from the pain.   
“Maybe later,” Ronan said, pulled his hand back, “I’m serious, Parrish. You’re freaking me the fuck out with all this weird ass denial. Even the nurse was worried about you and she didn’t see you have a panic attack, so just-” he broke off to shrug, to clear his throat, “-just tell me who it is so I can fucking mess them up. I won’t tell Gansey, but this is shit, man.”   
The silence stretches on, unbearably tense, Ronan knows that one of them will back down in a minute, and he’s adamant it won’t be him.   
“You can’t say anything to Gansey,” Adam mutters. Ronan nods. “And I don’t want this to be a - thing. We’re not gonna talk about it.”   
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” Ronan frowns, “I want to smash someone’s face about it.”   
Adam is shaking his head, slowly, back and forth like he’s forgotten he’s moving it. “It’ll only make things worse,” he says, “he’ll just get angrier.”   
Ronan starts to say; ‘Who will get angrier?’, but only gets the first noise out before he realises who. It makes sense, in a very sickening way. Adam doesn’t say anything. Just sits and watches Ronan’s expression change, and change again.   
“Your dad.” Ronan says eventually. Not wanting to say it, but not wanting to risk being wrong. Adam’s not saying yes, but he isn’t saying no either.   
He wants to say; ‘I’ll kill him,’ but thinks that Adam would truly not appreciate that, so instead he says nothing until the rage subsides slightly.   
“You can’t tell Gansey,” Adam says again, he’s staring down at his hands in his lap, “he’ll try and make me leave.”  
“You want to fucking stay?” Ronan asks, not quite clamping down hard enough on the rage still in his mouth. Adam doesn’t flinch, he shrugs, then shakes his head.   
“Of course I don’t,” he says, voice hard, “but I’m getting myself out. I don’t need his pity. Or yours.”   
“Good thing I wasn’t going to offer you mine, then,” Ronan sneered, and luckily, that did seem to be the right thing to say. For half a second he thought Adam might close back off, might get angry, instead he lets out a harsh laugh.   
“Good,” he says.


End file.
